So we went round—a procession of eight. Miss Beaumont led us. She was full of fun—at least so I thought at the time, but when I reviewed her speeches afterwards I could not find in them anything amusing. It was all this kind of thing: ‘Single file! Pretend you’re in church and don’t talk. Mr Ford, turn out your toes. Harcourt—at the bridge throw to the Naiad a pinch of tea. She has a headache. She has had a headache for nineteen hundred years.’ All that she said was quite stupid. I cannot think why I liked it at the time.
As we approached the copse she said, ‘Mr Inskip, sing, and we’ll sing after you: Áh you silly àss, gods live in woods.’ I cleared my throat and gave out the abominable phrase, and we all chanted it as if it were a litany. There was something attractive about Miss Beaumont. I was not surprised that Harcourt had picked her out of ‘Ireland’ and had brought her home, without money, without connexions, almost without antecedents, to be his bride. It was daring of him, but he knew himself to be a daring fellow. She brought him nothing; but that he could afford, he had so vast a surplus of spiritual and commercial goods. ‘In time,’ I heard him tell his mother, ‘in time Evelyn will repay me a thousandfold.’ Meanwhile there was something attractive about her. If it were my place to like people, I could have liked her very much.
‘Stop singing!’ she cried. We had entered the wood. ‘Welcome, all of you.’ We bowed. Ford, who had not been laughing, bowed down to the ground. ‘And now be seated. Mrs Worters—will you sit there—against that tree with a green trunk? It will show up your beautiful dress.’
‘Very well, dear, I will,’ said Mrs Worters.
‘Anna—there. Mr Inskip next to her. Then Ruth and Mrs Osgood. Oh, Harcourt—do sit a little forward, so that you’ll hide the house. I don’t want to see the house at all.’
‘I won’t!’ laughed her lover. ‘I want my back against a tree, too.’
‘Miss Beaumont,’ asked Ford, ‘where shall I sit?’ He was standing at attention, like a soldier.
‘Oh, look at all these Worters,’ she cried, ‘and one little Ford in the middle of them!’ For she was at that state of civilization which appreciates a pun.
‘Shall I stand, Miss Beaumont? Shall I hide the house from you if I stand?’
‘Sit down, Jack, you baby!’ cried his guardian, breaking in with needless asperity. ‘Sit down!’
‘He may just as well stand if he will,’ said she. ‘Just pull back your soft hat, Mr Ford. Like a halo. Now you hide even the smoke from the chimneys. And it makes you look beautiful.’
‘Evelyn! Evelyn! You are too hard on the boy. You’ll tire him. He’s one of those bookworms. He’s not strong. Let him sit down.’
‘Aren’t you strong?’ she asked.
‘I am strong!’ he cried. It is quite true. Ford has no right to be strong, but he is. He never did his dumb-bells or played in his school fifteen. But the muscles came. He thinks they came while he was reading Pindar.
‘Then you may just as well stand, if you will.’
‘Evelyn! Evelyn! childish, selfish maiden! If poor Jack gets tired I will take his place. Why don’t you want to see the house? Eh?’
Mrs Worters and the Miss Worters moved uneasily. They saw that their Harcourt was not quite pleased. Theirs not to question why. It was for Evelyn to remove his displeasure, and they glanced at her.
‘Well, why don’t you want to see your future home? I must say—though I practically planned the house myself—that it looks very well from here. I like the gables. Miss! Answer me!’
I felt for Miss Beaumont. A home-made gable is an awful thing, and Harcourt’s mansion looked like a cottage with the dropsy. But what would she say?
She said nothing.
‘Well?’
It was as if he had never spoken. She was as merry, as smiling, as pretty as ever, and she said nothing. She had not realized that a question requires an answer.
For us the situation was intolerable. I had to save it by making a tactful reference to the view, which, I said, reminded me a little of the country near Veii.2 It did not—indeed it could not, for I have never been near Veii. But it is part of my system to make classical allusions. And at all events I saved the situation.
Miss Beaumont was serious and rational at once. She asked me the date of Veii. I made a suitable answer.
‘I do like the classics,’ she informed us. ‘They are so natural. Just writing down things.’
‘Ye-es,’ said I. ‘But the classics have their poetry as well as their prose. They’re more than a record of facts.’
‘Just writing down things,’ said Miss Beaumont, and smiled as if the silly definition pleased her.
Harcourt had recovered himself. ‘A very just criticism,’ said he. ‘It is what I always feel about the ancient world. It takes us but a very little way. It only writes things down.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Evelyn.
‘I mean this—though it is presumptuous to speak in the presence of Mr Inskip. This is what I mean. The classics are not everything. We owe them an enormous debt; I am the last to undervalue it; I, too, went through them at school. They are full of elegance and beauty. But they are not everything. They were written before men began to really feel.’ He coloured crimson. ‘Hence, the chilliness of classical art—its lack of—of a something. Whereas later things—Dante—a Madonna of Raphael—some bars of Mendelssohn—’ His voice tailed reverently away. We sat with our eyes on the ground, not liking to look at Miss Beaumont. It is a fairly open secret that she also lacks a something. She has not yet developed her soul.
The silence was broken by the still small voice of Mrs Worters saying that she was faint with hunger.
The young hostess sprang up. She would let none of us help her: it was her party. She undid the basket and emptied out the biscuits and oranges from their bags, and boiled the kettle and poured out the tea, which was horrible. But we laughed and talked with the frivolity that suits the open air, and even Mrs Worters expectorated her flies with a smile. Over us all there stood the silent, chivalrous figure of Ford, drinking tea carefully lest it should disturb his outline. His guardian, who is a wag, chaffed him and tickled his ankles and calves.
‘Well, this is nice!’ said Miss Beaumont. ‘I am happy.’
‘Your wood, Evelyn!’ said the ladies.
‘Her wood for ever!’ cried Mr Worters. ‘It is an unsatisfactory arrangement, a ninety-nine years’ lease. There is no feeling of permanency. I reopened negotiations. I have bought her the wood for ever—all right, dear, all right: don’t make a fuss.’
‘But I must!’ she cried. ‘For everything’s perfect! Everyone so kind—and I didn’t know most of you a year ago. Oh, it is so wonderful—and now a wood—a wood of my own—a wood for ever. All of you coming to tea with me here! Dear Harcourt—dear people—and just where the house would come and spoil things, there is Mr Ford!’
‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Mr Worters, and slipped his hand up round the boy’s ankle. What happened I do not know, but Ford collapsed on to the ground with a sharp cry. To an outsider it might have sounded like a cry of anger or pain. We, who knew better, laughed uproariously.
‘Down he goes! Down he goes!’ and they struggled playfully, kicking up the mould and the dry leaves.
‘Don’t hurt my wood!’ cried Miss Beaumont.
Ford gave another sharp cry. Mr Worters withdrew his hand. ‘Victory!’ he exclaimed. ‘Evelyn! behold the family seat!’ But Miss Beaumont, in her butterfly fashion, had left us, and was strolling away into her wood.
We packed up the tea-things and then split into groups. Ford went with the ladies. Mr Worters did me the honour to stop by me.
‘Well!’ he said, in accordance with his usual formula, ‘and how go the classics?’
‘Fairly well.’
‘Does Miss Beaumont show any ability?’
‘I should say that she does. At all events she has enthusiasm.’
‘You do not think it is the enthusiasm of a child? I will be frank with you, M
r Inskip. In many ways Miss Beaumont’s practically a child. She has everything to learn: she acknowledges as much herself. Her new life is so different—so strange. Our habits—our thoughts—she has to be initiated into them all.’
I saw what he was driving at, but I am not a fool, and I replied: ‘And how can she be initiated better than through the classics?’
‘Exactly, exactly,’ said Mr Worters. In the distance we heard her voice. She was counting the beech-trees. ‘The only question is—this Latin and Greek—what will she do with it? Can she make anything of it? Can she—well, it’s not as if she will ever have to teach it to others.’
‘That is true.’ And my features might have been observed to become undecided.
‘Whether, since she knows so little—I grant you she has enthusiasm. But ought one not to divert her enthusiasm—say to English literature? She scarcely knows her Tennyson at all. Last night in the conservatory I read her that wonderful scene between Arthur and Guinevere. Greek and Latin are all very well, but I sometimes feel we ought to begin at the beginning.’
‘You feel,’ said I, ‘that for Miss Beaumont the classics are something of a luxury.’
‘A luxury. That is the exact word, Mr Inskip. A luxury. A whim. It is all very well for Jack Ford. And here we come to another point. Surely she keeps Jack back? Her knowledge must be elementary.’
‘Well, her knowledge is elementary: and I must say that it’s difficult to teach them together. Jack has read a good deal, one way and another, whereas Miss Beaumont, though diligent and enthusiastic—’
‘So I have been feeling. The arrangement is scarcely fair on Jack?’
‘Well, I must admit—’
‘Quite so. I ought never to have suggested it. It must come to an end. Of course, Mr Inskip, it shall make no difference to you, this withdrawal of a pupil.’
‘The lessons shall cease at once, Mr Worters.’
Here she came up to us. ‘Harcourt, there are seventy-eight trees. I have had such a count.’
He smiled down at her. Let me remember to say that he is tall and handsome, with a strong chin and liquid brown eyes, and a high forehead and hair not at all grey. Few things are more striking than a photograph of Mr Harcourt Worters.
‘Seventy-eight trees?’
‘Seventy-eight.’
‘Are you pleased?’
‘Oh, Harcourt—!’
I began to pack up the tea-things. They both saw and heard me. It was their own fault if they did not go further.
‘I’m looking forward to the bridge,’ said he. ‘A rustic bridge at the bottom, and then, perhaps, an asphalt path from the house over the meadow, so that in all weathers we can walk here dry-shod. The boys come into the wood—look at all these initials—and I thought of putting a simple fence, to prevent anyone but ourselves—’
‘Harcourt!’
‘A simple fence,’ he continued, ‘just like what I have put round my garden and the fields. Then at the other side of the copse, away from the house, I would put a gate, and have keys—two keys, I think—one for me and one for you—not more; and I would bring the asphalt path—’
‘But, Harcourt—’
‘But, Evelyn!’
‘I—I—I—’
‘You—you—you—?’
‘I—I don’t want an asphalt path.’
‘No? Perhaps you are right. Cinders perhaps. Yes. Or even gravel.’
‘But, Harcourt—I don’t want a path at all. I—I—can’t afford a path.’
He gave a roar of triumphant laughter. ‘Dearest! As if you were going to be bothered? The path’s part of my present.’
‘The wood is your present,’ said Miss Beaumont. ‘Do you know—I don’t care for the path. I’d rather always come as we came to-day. And I don’t want a bridge. No—nor a fence either. I don’t mind the boys and their initials. They and the girls have always come up to Other Kingdom and cut their names together in the bark. It’s called the Fourth Time of Asking. I don’t want it to stop.’
‘Ugh!’ He pointed to a large heart transfixed by an arrow. ‘Ugh! Ugh!’ I suspect that he was gaining time.
‘They cut their names and go away, and when the first child is born they come again and deepen the cuts. So for each child. That’s how you know: the initials that go right through to the wood are the fathers and mothers of large families, and the scratches in the bark that soon close up are boys and girls who were never married at all.’
‘You wonderful person! I’ve lived here all my life and never heard a word of this. Fancy folk-lore in Hertfordshire! I must tell the Archdeacon: he will be delighted—’
‘And, Harcourt, I don’t want this to stop.’
‘My dear girl, the villagers will find other trees! There’s nothing particular in Other Kingdom.’
‘But—’
‘Other Kingdom shall be for us. You and I alone. Our initials only.’ His voice sank to a whisper.
‘I don’t want it fenced in.’ Her face was turned to me; I saw that it was puzzled and frightened. ‘I hate fences. And bridges. And all paths. It is my wood. Please: you gave me the wood.’
‘Why, yes!’ he replied, soothing her. But I could see that he was angry. ‘Of course. But aha! Evelyn, the meadow’s mine; I have a right to fence there—between my domain and yours!’
‘Oh, fence me out, if you like! Fence me out as much as you like! But never in. Oh, Harcourt, never in. I must be on the outside, I must be where anyone can reach me. Year by year—while the initials deepen—the only thing worth feeling—and at last they close up—but one has felt them.’
‘Our initials!’ he murmured, seizing upon the one word which he had understood and which was useful to him. ‘Let us carve our initials now. You and I—a heart if you like it, and an arrow and everything. H. W.—E. B.’
‘H. W.,’ she repeated, ‘and E. B.’
He took out his pen-knife and drew her away in search of an unsullied tree. ‘E. B., Eternal Blessing. Mine! Mine! My haven from the world! My temple of purity. Oh, the spiritual exaltation—you cannot understand it, but you will! Oh, the seclusion of Paradise. Year after year alone together, all in all to each other—year after year, soul to soul, E. B., Everlasting Bliss!’
He stretched out his hand to cut the initials. As he did so she seemed to awake from a dream. ‘Harcourt!’ she cried, ‘Harcourt! What’s that? What’s that red stuff on your finger and thumb?’
III
Oh, my goodness! Oh, all ye goddesses and gods! Here’s a mess. Mr Worters has been reading Ford’s inflammatory note-book.
‘It is my own fault,’ said Ford. ‘I should have labelled it “Practically Private”. How could he know he was not meant to look inside?’
I spoke out severely, as an employé should. ‘My dear boy, none of that. The label came unstuck. That was why Mr Worters opened the book. He never suspected it was private. See—the label’s off.’
‘Scratched off,’ Ford retorted grimly, and glanced at his ankle.
I affected not to understand. ‘The point is this. Mr Worters is thinking the matter over for four-and-twenty hours. If you take my advice you will apologize before that time elapses.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘You know your own affairs of course. But don’t forget that you are young and practically ignorant of life, and that you have scarcely any money of your own. As far as I can see, your career practically depends on the favour of Mr Worters. You have laughed at him. He does not like being laughed at. It seems to me that your course is obvious.’
‘Apology?’
‘Complete.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Departure.’
He sat down on the stone steps and rested his head on his knees. On the lawn below us was Miss Beaumont, draggling about with some croquet balls. Her lover was out in the meadow, superintending the course of the asphalt path. For the path is to be made, and so is the bridge, and the fence is to be built round Other Kingdom after all. In time
Miss Beaumont saw how unreasonable were her objections. Of her own accord, one evening in the drawing-room, she gave her Harcourt permission to do what he liked. ‘That wood looks nearer,’ said Ford.
‘The inside fences have gone: that brings it nearer. But my dear boy—you must settle what you’re going to do.’
‘How much has he read?’
‘Naturally he only opened the book. From what you showed me of it, one glance would be enough.’
‘Did he open at the poems?’
‘Poems?’
‘Did he speak of the poems?’
‘No. Were they about him?’
‘They were not about him.’
‘Then it wouldn’t matter if he saw them.’
‘It is sometimes a compliment to be mentioned,’ said Ford, looking up at me. The remark had a stinging fragrance about It—such a fragrance as clings to the mouth after admirable wine. It did not taste like the remark of a boy. I was sorry that my pupil was likely to wreck his career; and I told him again that he had better apologize.
‘I won’t speak of Mr Worters’ claim for an apology. That’s an aspect on which I prefer not to touch. The point is, if you don’t apologize, you go—where?’
‘To an aunt at Peckham.’
I pointed to the pleasant, comfortable landscape, full of cows and carriage-horses out at grass, and civil retainers. In the midst of it stood Mr Worters, radiating energy and wealth, like a terrestrial sun. ‘My dear Ford—don’t be heroic! Apologize.’
Unfortunately I raised my voice a little, and Miss Beaumont heard me, down on the lawn.
‘Apologize?’ she cried. ‘What about?’ And as she was not interested in the game, she came up the steps towards us, trailing her croquet mallet behind her. Her walk was rather listless. She was toning down at last.
‘Come indoors!’ I whispered. ‘We must get out of this.’
‘Not a bit of it!’ said Ford.
‘What is it?’ she asked, standing beside him on the step.
He swallowed something as he looked up at her. Suddenly I understood. I knew the nature and the subject of his poems. I was not so sure now that he had better apologize. The sooner he was kicked out of the place the better.
Selected Stories Page 9